


The Frumious Bandersnatch

by Anglophile_Rin



Series: The Jabberwocky Universe [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abduction, Gen, M/M, Mystery, Parent!lock, Parentlock, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-31
Updated: 2012-08-31
Packaged: 2017-11-13 05:50:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/500192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anglophile_Rin/pseuds/Anglophile_Rin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, and not so far away, there was a very clever knight and his loyal scribe. Together, they travelled throughout the land, slaying any dragon which they encountered.</p><p>But every once in a while, dragons don’t actually deserve to be slain. Every once in a while, the dragon is merely doing what dragons do, and when the knight slays him, he’s very much in the wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Frumious Bandersnatch

John puts a finger to his lips as Hamish shakes him awake. The boy yawns, sleep rumpled hair plastered to one side of his face, along with pillow creases and a small amount of drool.

“Be very quiet, Hay, okay?” John whispered with sleep-roughed voice, brushing his son’s bangs out of his face as he sat up, stifling a yawn of his own.

“Is Daddy bored ‘gain?” The toddler asked as John guided him gently by the arm out of the room.

“Dunno, mate, he’s still sleeping. Let’s just hope Uncle Greg calls with a case today, yeah?”

Hamish nodded as the duo made their way into the kitchen where John set about making Hamish some breakfast and the boy looked longingly at the television. John handed him his bowl of cereal, smiling slightly. “Go on, then. But quietly - volume on seven, okay?”

“Thanks, Da!” Hamish grinned, bouncing over to sit cross-legged on the floor all of about seven inches from the telly, only spilling a few teaspoon’s worth of milk in the process.

Sherlock stumbled into the room a moment later, hair plastered to his face in an uncanny reproduction of their son’s, baring his lean stomach of its soft, grey t-shirt as he stretched his arms over his head in a yawn.

“I did seven!” Hamish yelled from the living room around a mouthful of Cheerios.

John huffed out a laugh. “I know, good boy. Morning, Sherlock.”

“Mmph.” Sherlock replied, bee-lining for the couch and flopping onto it dramatically, turning his back to the room.

Hamish made cautious eyes at John as he slowly chewed a spoonful of his cereal. Then, heaving a big sigh, he put the bowl carefully on the table, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and went over to the couch tapping Sherlock on the shoulder. Sherlock reluctantly turned so he was facing the room rather than the back of the couch (greatly softening his usual scowl, John was pleased to see), and Hamish clambered up into the space Sherlock made with his legs, resting his head on his Daddy’s knee.

Sherlock glanced down through heavily-lidded eyes at the two-year-old. Hamish gave him his ‘John smile’ back – closed lips, eyebrows raised, eyes wide – it was the most innocent smile he had in his repertoire and often came out when Sherlock was in a mood.

“Hi Daddy.”

“Hello, Hamish.” Sherlock replied, almost curtly.

“Daddy, I love you.”

Sherlock exhaled through his nose, not quite fighting to keep a straight face. “Yes, I love you, too, Hamish.”

“Da thinks you pretty when you smile, Daddy.” Hamish informed him in a sing-song. Sherlock’s lips quirked up at the corners.

“Thinks _you’re_ pretty.” He corrected.

“Nu uh, you!” Hamish protested, sitting up, absolutely outraged at being told he was wrong on something he’d been so sure of.

Sherlock stopped even not quite fighting and grinned, flinging himself over to gently tackle his son.

“No, you.” He laughed, dropping a quick kiss on Hamish’s cheek before catapulting off the couch and bounding into the kitchen, swooping in on John to give him a hug and kiss of his own, then quirking an eyebrow. “You tell our son that I’m _pretty_?”

John shrugged nonchalantly. “When you can be arsed to smile, sure.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but his phone buzzed, interrupting his thoughts. Settling on shooting John all of half a glare, he hurried to the counter to fetch it, grinning again and then tapping madly.

“Case, John!” he shouted, sweeping his way out of the kitchen and back into the bedroom.

John picked up Hamish from the couch, the two sharing an indulgent smile while they waited for Sherlock to re-emerge and John set Hamish’s empty bowl into the sink.

Sherlock did come back, just a few minutes later, fully dressed in a crisp, clean suit, his hair somehow perfectly coifed again, no sign of the sleep-rumpled man he’d been mere moments before.

“Come, John!” he called over his shoulder as he grabbed his coat and scarf from the arm of the couch.

“Uh, Sherlock.”

“John, come on. You’re not even dressed! Lestrade’s waiting.”

“Sherlock. Toddler. Supervision required.” John reminded his husband, bouncing Hamish on his hip as a visual aid.

Sherlock frowned. “Ah. Yes. Quite.” Wrapping his scarf slowly around his neck, Sherlock furrowed his brow, then quirked a corner of his mouth. “Mrs. Hudson!” He yelled down the steps. “Would you mind Hamish?”

“Not your Nanny, Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson called back up.

Sherlock sighed as if greatly disappointed in her answer, rolling his eyes. “Hamish, shout ‘please.’ Mispronounce the ‘r,’ if you would.”

“Pweeeeeeeeeease!” Hamish bellowed before John could cut him off.

Sherlock was quite proud of his son’s addition of the elongated ‘e.’

 

***

 

_Once upon a time, and not so far away, there was a very clever knight and his loyal scribe. Together, they traveled throughout the land, slaying any dragon which they encountered._

_But every once in a while, dragons don’t actually deserve to be slain. Every once in a while, the dragon is merely doing what dragons do, and when the knight slays him, he’s very much in the wrong._

 

***

 

The boys met a grave-looking Lestrade in an empty bedroom.

Completely empty. Well, of anything forensic. No body, no blood, no sign of a struggle, or even a wall full of serial-killer drabble. In fact, the only thing the wall _was_ full of was classic Winnie-the-Pooh characters and shelves packed with stuffed animals.

“Uh…” John frowned. “Exactly what sort of case _is_ this?”

“Sherlock!” Lestrade exclaimed before the detective could even open his mouth. “You said you talked to John about it – you said he was fine with it.”

John rolled his eyes. “Rule Number One: The Detecive lies.”

Lestrade snorted a laugh, but Sherlock just furrowed his brow slightly in confusion before hurrying on, lest he be cut off again.

“I’m fine with it, and I knew John would be, as well. Honestly, Lestrade, your concerns are likely well-meant, but entirely foolish.”

“Okay, can someone just tell me what sort of crime scene we’re looking at here?”

Lestrade sighed, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck. “Rash of kidnappings. No ransom notes, tykes stolen from their own gardens, living rooms…” he sidelong at Sherlock, obviously trying to convey exactly how much he despised the man. “The kids show up dead 3-5 days later.”

John blinked. Oh, of course. “Uh, how old are they?” he asked, trying to organize his thoughts – their last case before Sherlock had died for three years had been a kidnap case…

“Two. All of them, two year old boys.”

Ah. And then there was that. John turned to Sherlock, who raised his eyebrows slightly, spreading his hands as he shrugged in Sherlock-speak for “what? I’m an alien, I didn’t know!”

Or, at least, that was how John had always interpreted it.

“Um, I think I’m needed… elsewhere. I’ll be back in ten minutes.” Lestrade ventured, looking between the two men. “Fifteen. Fifteen minutes.” He amended before fleeing the toddler’s bedroom, leaving the couple alone.

“Sherlock.” John started.

“John.” Sherlock replied, managing to sound simultaneously exasperated and bored.

“Sherlock, come on. You can’t expect me to believe that this case doesn’t bother you.”

“No more than any other case – why should it?”

“Because! It involves children!”

“Many cases do…”

“ _We_ have a child.”

“By that reasoning, I should be bothered by every case involving a husband or mother or brother, and I have each of those as well. Actually, wait, no, the borther one would only give me ideas… I should start keeping a notebook…”

“Oi! Knock it off. This isn’t funny – it’s different and you know it. We have a two-year-old boy, this is a horrible, terrible, currently open case about some lunatic who steals and kills two-year-old boys. You know that makes it different – or at least you should have known it would be to me!”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, John. Our two-year-old is currently sitting safely at home with our landlady. Unless Mrs. Hudson turns out to be the killer – which _would_ be a surprising turn of events, given the culprit’s shoe size and left-handedness – Hamish is, and will remain, perfectly safe.”

“You should have warned me, Sherlock. I’m going to be worse than useless here.”

“Par for the course, then.”

John ignored the barb. “All I’ll be able to do is think about how Hamish has that same stuffed animal, or that he plays in the garden alone. I can’t believe you won’t be.”

“How many times must I tell you that caring won’t help them? Surely comparing them to my own progeny will be even _less_ helpful.”

“Fine, just…fine. Just warn me next time. Some of us respond emotionally to… emotional things in general, really.”

“Safe to come in?” Lestrade asked warily, peeking his head around the open door.

“Quite. So, the abductor is left-handed, wears a size eleven shoe – not a boot, but well-worn – gained entrance to the room through the attic – which warrants some looking into, as the window was shut, but not locked, and obviously hasn’t been in some time. Given the shoe size, it’s safe to assume we’re dealing with at least one man – I’d say in his early thirties, likely ex-military given the wear pattern on his shoes, athletic, but not sporting. Oh, that and he spent a significant amount of time in Iraq, so either ex-military or mercenary – sorry, ‘contractor’.”

“I swear you make this shit up sometimes.” Lestrade sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Go on, then. How could you possibly know some bloke you’ve never seen has even been to Iraq, much less that he spent any amount of time there?”

Sherlock barely tried to suppress his smirk. “Cigarette ash. The whole lot of you are always underestimating cigarette ash. There’s a small smudge of it there,” he pointed up to the attic access in the ceiling. “He was obviously smoking in the attic while he waited. I’d say he was smart enough to collect his ash, but left a trace behind when replacing the ceiling panel. That particular ash comes from a cigarette specific to Iraq and favoured amongst military and contractors alike.”

“Donovan,” Lestrade called over his shoulder. “Run a search on ex-military and contractors who returned from Iraq in the past year.”

“Best make it two.” Sherlock corrected.

“Two years!” Lestrade relayed. He smiled wanly. Sorry about this, John. We’ll let you know if anything else surfaces, alright Sherlock?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll do the same, I hope?”

Lestrade didn’t get an answer, as Sherlock elected to leave the room instead, tapping away on his phone. But then again, he hadn’t really been expecting one.

 

***

 

_Why had no one ever heard of this terrible injustice to innocent dragons everywhere, you may be wondering. Well, when the only scribe around the tell the tale is very best friends with the knight in question, it makes sense that the world only sees one side of the story. Everyone loves a baddy, and every fairy tale needs a good old fashioned villain. But sometimes, boys and girls, we need to ask ourselves: Are the villains really always all that villainous?_

***

 

John chose to walk home, taking in the air and gathering himself. The last thing he wanted was to upset Hamish by showing up all teary and over-protective.

Sherlock rode ahead in a cab, which was why John returned to 221B to find the man flying around the living room, gesturing wildly and muttering to himself while their son perched precariously on his shoulders, clutching fistfuls of Sherlock’s hair and squealing delightedly.

John was struck with the sudden and unsettling feeling that Sherlock had actually forgotten that Hamish was up there.

“John!” Sherlock greeted him abruptly. “How long have you been here? Look! Crime scene photos. They’re remarkable…”

“Weren’t we just at the crime scene?” John asked, standing on tiptoe to pull Hamish backwards off his husband’s shoulders, swinging him down and onto his hip.

“Ah, yes, you’re right, of course. Technically, we were at the primary crime scene – the most recent one. I’m talking about secondary scenes – dump sites, John!”

John frowned. “Sherlock Holmes, are you telling me that you’ve been waving pictures of bodies around while giving Hamish a piggyback ride?”

“Of course not. Hamish and I studied them together; he helped me recognize a unifying theme, and _then_ I gave him a piggyback ride. Our son is a genius, by the way.”

“Yeah, I’ve always been afraid of that.” John muttered, twisting his lips and raising an eyebrow at Hamish. “Wait, you _purposely_ showed our _two-year-old_ pictures of… that?”

“I do wish you’d stop implying that I’m an unfit parent. The pictures are innocuous at worst. I told him they were pictures of sleeping boys around his age. There’s no evidence otherwise, so naturally, he believed me.” To demonstrate, Sherlock showed the top photo in the stack on the table to his husband.

The little boy in it was sitting in a park, leaned up against a tree. There was a dark smudge of something on his nose, and he was dressed in what looked like some sort of brown, woolly romper suit. He really did look like he was just sleeping in the park, John had to admit, but for the bluish tinge to his lips and awkward positioning of his arms, which were propped behind his head as if he were lounging, but with elbows flopped forward lifelessly.

“Fine, but still. He’s two.”

“And as the age of earliest memory in the average adult is three-and-a-half, this should not contribute to his future therapy in the slightest.”

“Right, well, just in case, bout about a kip, mate?” John addressed Hamish, whose head had been pressed down on John’s shoulder since moments after his Da had lifted him.

“No’ sleepy, Da.” Hamish protested, blinking heavily.

“I’m sure you’re not, but let’s give it a try anyway, shall we?”

John carried the boy upstairs, depositing him onto his bed and kissing the top of his head.

“You mad at Daddy?” Hamish inquired sleepily.

“No, not mad.” John smiled. “We just need to discuss age appropriate activities again.”

“Kay. Love you, Da.”

Closing the door softly behind him, John skipped back down the stairs to find Sherlock tacking the photos up onto the wall.

“So, out of curiosity, do you make it a habit to expose our toddler to crime scene photos, or is this a relatively new bonding activity?”

Sherlock curled his lip this time as he rolled his eyes in what John fondly referred to as the ‘Anderson expression’.”

“He was here, he saw the pictures, they were markedly non-gory; I hardly see the harm. Besides, as I _told_ you, his help was invaluable.”

“Ah, right, so go on, then. What did young Hamish manage to see that the great Sherlock Holmes failed to observe?”

That earned John a scowl, but only a small one. Sherlock motioned to the photo again. John stared, unable to grasp what he was seeing. Sherlock gave him a moment before sighing. “The child’s in fancy dress.”

John narrowed his eyes as he studied that first picture yet again. “What, the woolly suit?”

“And the face paint, and the ears.”

“Ears…”

“Yes, I missed them, too. They’re hidden in his hair. Apparently he’s a bear.”

“So? Maybe he was playing at being one when he was taken…”

“That would be quite a coincidence as he’s been joined by a fox, a skunk and –what Hamish has assured me is- a bunny.”

John frowned as Sherlock gestured to each of the photos in turn. It was true – each boy did seem to be dressed up as some form of animal.

“So the killer’s dressing them as animals? Why? Some sort of animal rights activist? Furry fetish?”

“Haven’t the faintest. Yet. Hamish volunteered that ‘animals are nice,’ but somehow I doubt that that’s where the motivation lies.”

“Right. So, have you let Lestrade know yet?”

Sherlock carefully avoided eye contact.

“ _Sherlock_. I won’t have Anderson rifling through Hamish’s teddy bears – _again_ – because you’ve decided to withhold evidence. Again.”

Sherlock sighed heavily. “It’s not as if I have much of anything to tell him. The children are dressed like animals. We don’t even know _why_. It won’t help us catch the killer at this point, or find the most recently kidnapped boy.”

“You don’t want to admit you can’t figure something out.”

“That’s not it at all!”

“Yes it is.”

“Well, fine, yes. A bit. But only a bit! It really _is_ useless information without context.”

“Oh, just call Lestrade, you vain git. Maybe they’ve found something that’ll clear up the animal thing.”

Sherlock scowled yet again, but reached for his phone anyway. His phone, however, had other ideas and buzzed to life before he could even touch it.

“Ah. Come on, then, John. Crime scene. Mrs. Hudson! Would you mind Hamish? He’s down for a kip – should sleep another hour or so, I expect we’ll be back by then! Thank you!”

John groaned as he followed his partner out the door and down the stairs, swearing that when they got home he’d start looking into crèches to save their poor landlady from life as a semi-professional child-minder.

 

***

_Not all knights look like knights, and not all dragons look like dragons. In fact, not all fairy tales look like fairy tales. Sometimes they look like ghost stories. Terrible, spooky, scary ghost stories. In these stories the bad guy can become the good guy. And the good guy the bad. There are no heroes in ghost stories, boys and girls. Just those who are slain and those who slay them._

***

It was one of those secondary scenes, unfortunately. What was it they said on the crime shows? ‘Escalation.’ The killer was escalating – the boy had only been gone a day this time, nowhere near 3-5.

And the way it was done. Somehow, an actual body _dump_ might have actually been preferable. Someone just dropping the body off, making it at least a little impersonal. Terrible, yeah, especially when the victim was a toddler, but still somehow better than this.

The entire scene was staged.

They were in Kensington Gardens, a ways off of one of the major paths. The little boy whose room they’d been in just hours before, who’d disappeared just the day before – Andrew – was fixed to a low-lying tree branch, lazing back with a piece of long, dry grass dangling from his lips. He was dressed all in grey, with dark make-up smudged around his eyes.

Another little boy – also blond, fair, with a smattering of freckles across his small nose – was hanging by his knees from the branch, swaying slightly in the strong breeze, fixed there with ropes and complicated knots. He, too, was dressed all in grey, the same dark make-up decorating his eyes and, where he was hanging down, they could see a fluffy, striped tail affixed to his trousers. They could have been twins – twin racoons – but for the pooling blood turning the second boy’s face a dark purple.

“Who’s the other boy?” John asked as they reached the Yarders past the police tape.

“Not sure; could be one of a few missing persons – could be someone not reported yet. We have to go through our files and see.”

“He’s never done two before.” Sherlock stated.

“No.”

“Or this quickly.”

“No, nor that.”

“Are we sure it’s the same bloke and not some copycat?” John ventured.

“Try not to be an idiot in public, John, it makes people question my taste in men. Of course it’s the same man; the costuming is the same, the park, the victimology. The differences just illustrate the narrative he’s attempting to put across. Obviously it’s not just animals, but some _specific_ animals which these boys are supposed to be portraying. We just need to discover which.”

John shoved his hands into his pockets angrily, stalking over to examine the ropes tying the second boy to the tree while Sherlock babbled away to Lestrade about the animal discovery – obviously apparent now that the killer was adding bloody _tails_ to his victims – and any and all deductions he was gleaning from the children and surrounding area.

Nothing seemed to be all that remarkable about the ropes themselves. Just rope, bought at any store in town which also carried nails and hammers. It seemed more an afterthought than anything else; like the killer had attempted to just hang the boy there, but his lack of muscle tension kept him from doing so.

“He was interrupted.” Sherlock muttered into John’s ear, doing that unnerving thing where he read John’s mind.

John chose to very maturely ignore him, walking a little further down the branch to look for fibres or footprints or something.

“The plan was obviously to hang the boy until lividity took over, thus hanging him there without external aids. However, this likely relied on some previously determined timeline – my guess is that he was to take advantage of the marathon going through this park two days from now, effectively cutting this section off, giving him the time to set the stage correctly. Something happened to advance his timeline so he felt he had no choice but to kill the boys sooner – that, or one of them died naturally.” Sherlock continued as if John had not decided to pretend he didn’t exist.

“Right, so just rope he had in his boot, then?” John gave up, turning to face the man.

“Likely. Might have trace evidence on it, but I wouldn’t rely on anything of the sort.”

“So, two more dead boys and nowhere closer, then?”

“Seems that way.”

“Still not bothering you?”

“Not having enough data always bothers me.”

“You know what I mean.”

Sherlock shrugged.

“Home then?”

“Yes, John. Home.”

 

***

 

_For a while, some said the knight and his scribe were the start of the boy who cried wolf. A wolf, after all, is just like a dragon – knights always want to slay them, just for being wolves. Sometimes, knights even made up the evil deeds the wolves did, just to get away with slaying them, to be a hero to the town._

_Of course, at this point in time, the knights were called huntsmen, but that’s beside the point._

_The boy who cried wolf, those who believe it was the knight and the scribe say, did not just tell the village a wolf was coming, he actually told them what the wolf had done wrong._

_Of course, the wolf had done none of this._

_But the knight cried it, and the scribe scribed it, and everyone believed it._

_When he was proved false, though, would anyone believe when a wolf actually came?_

***

 

In the cab on the way home, John’s phone rang. Seeing it was Greg, he assumed that Sherlock’s had rung first and he had just chosen to ignore it, as lost in his thought as he seemed to be. John clicked to answer the call, bringing the phone up to his ear.

“Hey Greg, miss us already?”

“You, yes. Sherlock, well… Anyway, just wanted to let you and the great git know we found out who the second boy was. Mark Collins, his Mum didn’t realize he was gone. She’d gone out of town for the week on business and the sitter was too frantic to call the police – thought she’d be charged with negligence or something. Molly wants to know if you’ll meet her at the morgue for the autopsies, about five.”

“Yeah, I’m sure we can do that. Tell her we’ll see her then. Thanks for letting us know.” John hung up, relaying the message to Sherlock.

“The sitter’s an idiot.”

“You think everyone’s an idiot.”

“Fine, the sitter’s a moron. Who knows what we could have done had we had the second boy’s room to inspect? Are they going to let me question her?”

“Greg didn’t say, but I feel like it’s unlikely. You don’t have the best track record with witnesses.”

“I’m very effective with suspects, though, and she seems to be a mere thread away from that.”

“Oh, just stop, you’re not going to intimidate some teenage girl – or worse, old lady – into tears. We’ll go see the room and see what you can find. Oh, and Molly invited us to the autopsy.”

“Excellent. At least there’s _something_ to look forward to.”

“Sherlock. Dead children. Tone.”

“Yes, yes. Pay the driver.”

John hadn’t even noticed they’d stopped, and Sherlock was already out the cab and halfway to their front door. Grumbling, John grabbed a twenty pound note from his wallet, handing it to the driver before following Sherlock into the house.

The scene was not exactly what he expected. Mrs. Hudson’s door was ajar; John could just see her through the gap, fast asleep on her couch. The door to their flat was wide open, and John could hear Sherlock thundering through it, first up the stairs to Hamish’s room, then back down, what sounded like their room, and into the kitchen and living room from there. There was the loud screeching sound of furniture being moved and a few crashes as things toppled over (John hadn’t the first clue what, though he suspected books and dishes). He was just about to head up the stairs when Sherlock came flying down them, pushing past John and barrelling his way into 221A, kneeling beside Mrs. Hudson’s couch and shaking her awake roughly by the shoulders.

“Sherlock!” John protested, taking a step towards the duo as Mrs. Hudson blinked awake.

“Sherlock, what-“

“Where is he?” Sherlock demanded.

“Where…?” Mrs. Hudson looked up at John, still confused and slow with sleep.

“Concentrate, you idiot woman! Where is my son? You were supposed to be watching him, where is he?”

“Sherlock! What are you on about?” John demanded, reaching his husband’s side now and touching his shoulder. Sherlock stood abruptly at the touch, effectively brushing John’s hand off and carting both hands through his hair.

“He’s not here. There’s a kidnapper and killer out there, and Mrs. Hudson decides to fall asleep while watching our son who is now NOT HERE.” He shouted the last directly at Mrs. Hudson, who was now sat up and frowning.

“Kidnapper?”

“Yes! Kidnapper! Napper of kids, as it were. Napper, as in thief. A thief of children and _my_ child is _gone_!”

“But, Sherlock. Mycroft came and picked up Hamish half an hour ago. He said he’d texted you.” Mrs. Hudson finally managed to get out.

Sherlock fumbled for his phone, pulling it out and scrolling through his texts. “No, no new texts.”

“Yesterday, dear. He texted you about it yesterday. He said you agreed.”

Realization dawned across Sherlock’s face as he sank to the floor, closing his eyes and trying to catch his breath.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hudson…” John offered. “I think Sherlock just now realized that working a case involving two-year-olds can make you worry about your own.”

“Oh dear.” Mrs. Hudson fussed. “Terrible business, any case with kids. Of course he’d be upset. Poor Sherlock. Let me just put the kettle on, will I? Go see him, John. I think he needs a little cuddle.” Mrs Hudson practically whispered to John before straightening the afghan on her couch and leaving for her kitchen.

John went to sit next to Sherlock, bumping his bony shoulder with his own.

“All right?”

“Is this how you feel all the time? Do you worry about him like this all the time?” Sherlock asked.

“Well, maybe not like this. But I worry, yeah. And so do you. It’s just… more so, when things like this happen.”

“So this is what you meant. This is it being different.”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“I was right.”

“Oh?”

“This is likely to be incredibly unhelpful.”

 

***

 

_Are you ready for the story? This is an old one. This is the story of Sir Boast-a-Lot. But this is the part of the story no one ever heard before. This is not the story of the Final Problem._

_The other knights had told the King their fears, and Sir Boast-a-Lot had been ousted from the Kingdom. But the King was a fool, and readily forgave Sir Boast-a-Lot when he came back, just because he had slain the dragon, crying wolf about what he’d done wrong._

_The scribe and Sir Boast-a-Lot were so pleased with themselves that they decided it was time for a squire. And so he came, hearing the scribe’s stories, and believing them like everyone else._

_Oh, would nobody ever hear the true story? Would nobody ever listen to what the dragon had to say?_

***

 

Sherlock was hiding in his room when Mycroft brought Hamish home (though he would swear until the day he died that he was merely reviewing evidence and hadn’t heard his brother enter, despite Mycroft’s purposely raised voice and forceful taps of his umbrella.

Hamish had a disturbing fascination with his Uncle Mycroft (well, disturbing according to Sherlock, at least). Whenever the two found themselves in one another’s company, Hamish would follow his uncle around like a shadow, just silently watching him, gladly accepting the plates of cake which also seemed to follow the man around.

Finally, one day John had asked Hamish why he was always following Mycroft so closely.

“He don’t look like Daddy.” Hamish told him. John had smiled bemusedly.

“No, not really. But not all brothers look alike, Hay. Your friends Aaron and Michael don’t look alike, either.”

“No… But he can do _anything_. Even make Daddy do stuff. And no one else can. And no one reg’lar knows who he is.”

John smiled again at the boy’s deductions. “And?”

“I think Uncle Mycroft is The Master.” Hamish replied solemnly.

When John told this to Sherlock (and explained who The Master was), the trio took part in the first ever Doctor and/or Tardis hunt Sherlock ever had or would voluntarily participate in, cackling all the while.

Ever since, Sherlock had been more than happy to let Mycroft spend time with his son – a fact which both greatly confused and greatly pleased the unofficial British Government.

Which, of course, is why Sherlock had agreed when Mycroft had texted the day before, asking to take Hamish along to the theatre for the day. Peter Pan was playing in the city, the film of which Hamish had almost managed to actually wear out the Blu-ray of. After Mycroft left, Hamish wandered into the bedroom where John could hear him excitedly relaying the details of the play to his father (he was pleased to hear the rustling of papers beforehand signifying Sherlock putting any and all crime photos away). He smiled as he heated up some leftover pasta for Hamish’s dinner, knowing that Sherlock would refuse to eat while on the case, and that he could just make a sandwich when he was hungry enough.

After dinner, Sherlock continued to sit with Hamish out in the living room, rather than go back to work (a fact which surprised John greatly, and left him torn as to whether he was glad. He often wished Sherlock would play with their son more often, but he also knew that this was an important case, and wanted Sherlock to concentrate on it. Ah well, Hamish would be going to bed soon, maybe Sherlock would work on it tonight.

More tired than he realized, John actually gave up and went to bed while Sherlock was tucking Hamish in upstairs. He had no doubt that his husband wouldn’t hesitate to wake him should he need him some time during the night.

 

Some indeterminate number of hours later, John heard the door to the bedroom slowly open. Too tired to open his eyes and check his clock, John chose to just snuggle down into the blankets and wait for Sherlock to join him, which he did after taking an inordinate amount of time changing into pyjamas.

John scooted over to steal Sherlock’s innate warmth, wrapping one arm around his husband’s thin waist.

A thin waist which seemed rather thicker than normal.

Not to mention Sherlock’s acquisition of a second head.

“Sherlock.” John started.

“Shh, quiet, John. He’s asleep.”

“That’s lovely. Why isn’t he asleep in his own bed?”

Sherlock was silent. John sighed.

“Love, we can’t have him sleeping in our bed. He’ll want to do it every night.”

“Okay.”

“ _Sherlock_. He can’t sleep here!”

“Why not? Wouldn’t he be safer? You know, there are cultures where entire families share a bed to fend against predators and enemies and… frostbite.” Sherlock ended lamely.

John felt he really didn’t have to respond to that.

“This is your fault, you know. You wanted me to feel something. Did you wish very hard? Are you satisfied? I care. I look at those photos of the boys in their animal suits and all I see is Hamish in their place. All I can imagine are how many ways there are into this flat and whether our crawl space is habitable. I’ve bolted and re-bolted his window seventeen times in the past half an hour, and yet I’m always sure I managed to forget or do it wrong. I’m out of my mind and it’s not helping things _at all_. How am I supposed to help these boys if I can only think about ours??”

“He can sleep here tonight.” John replied, rather than trying to answer.

“Thank you.” Sherlock whispered, pressing his head back into John’s throat. Together, the couple joined their son in sleep. Or, at least, John did. With Sherlock, you could never really tell.

 

The park stretched out verdantly around John. Which was odd because he had no recollection of how he got there.

Looking down, John realized he was dressed as a very large, very fluffy squirrel.

Really? A squirrel?

Glancing around, he noticed that a few yards off, Mycroft, Sherlock and Hamish were acting out Peter Pan on what looked like the massive fountain from the Kensington entrance to the garden. Mycroft was obviously Captain Hook, and Sherlock – kitted out in green tights- was Peter Pan. Hamish kept running out of sight and back to the ‘stage,’ dressed in turn as lost boys, Michael and Wendy, and even Nana the dog, in no order that really made sense in the context of the story.

Taking his phone out, John attempted to text Sherlock to ask him why he was in fancy dress as a squirrel and if he could keep the tights, but found that his keyboard was being incredibly uncooperative. Every time he tried to press a letter it either didn’t work or the wrong letter popped up on the screen. Tossing the phone aside in frustration, John reach for the landline hanging upside-down from the tree, but the numbers on it weren’t working, either. And besides, he couldn’t remember Sherlock’s number.

Wait. There was something about spelling and numbers that was niggling at the back of his head… Something common, some reason he couldn’t type.

Oh, right, he realized as he opened his eyes to the darkness of his bedroom. He couldn’t type in his dreams.

As it turned out, he wasn’t the one who had woken him up. Next to him, Sherlock was murmuring quietly, the blue glow of his phone unnaturally bright in the darkness of the bedroom.

He heard him hang up, tossing his phone lightly onto the bedside table, before his shadowy shape seemed to duck down – John guessed he was giving Hamish what Sherlock obviously assumed was unobserved. John inhaled quickly, pretending to just wake up.

“Who was that?” he asked sleepily, turning onto his side to face his boys.

“Lestrade.” Sherlock replied in a quiet murmur, his voice muffled by Hamish’s curly hair.

“Any news?”

“Only bad. Three children – all from one family. A two-year-old boy, an infant and a four-year-old girl.”

John frowned. “What’s this guy playing at? How are we supposed to catch him if he doesn’t stick to his own bloody MO?” John grumbled, shifting up in the bed so he was propped up on the headboard. “Does Lestrade want us at the scene?”

Sherlock hummed in confirmation. “I told him no.”

“I’m sorry, you did what?”

“I told him no. We’ll meet him at the morgue tomorrow – Molly never got to those autopsies today, she had a big accident come in. We can go to the scene after.”

“Sherlock, you hate cold scenes.”

“Yes.”

“You especially hate getting there after Anderson’s had a chance to trample all over it. You say he wilfully destroys evidence.”

“Yes.”

“Are you okay?”

“No. I told you. I can’t concentrate. I keep… _imagining_ things.” He spat the word ‘imagining’ out like it left a foul taste in his mouth. “I’ve made it personal. The last time I made a case personal I ended up stepping off a roof and leaving you for three years. I need to separate again, and I’m finding it…problematic.”

“Sherlock, have you slept yet?” There was a small noise against the pillow which John took to be Sherlock shaking his head. “Why not?”

“Can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Can’t.”

“Ah, can’t sleep, clowns will eat me?”

“Can’t sleep, my son will disappear.”

“Alright, hand him over. I’ve slept, so I’ll stay awake and watch him and you can sleep.”

“But-“

“Oi, don’t you dare insinuate you don’t trust _me_ to watch him. You’ll be able to gather your thoughts better if you’ve slept a bit. Here, just turn over. You can still hold him, he’ll still be between us.”

Sherlock acquiesced, turning gently over so Hamish was lying in the space between the two men, both hands thrown up near his face, snoring lightly.

“Close your eyes.” John commanded. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness now and he could see when Sherlock complied. “Good. Go to sleep, love. We’ll go catch a killer in the morning.”

John waited up until he heard Sherlock’s breathing even out. And then settled himself in to wait up longer, keeping watch over Hamish, just like he promised.

 

***

 

_Why do so many stories involve stolen children? Always stolen by the baddie. Children stolen by dragons, children stolen by wolves, children stolen by a strange man with a flute who leads them away in a dance from their Mummies and Daddies and homes and gardens._

_Sometimes, as I’m sure you know, boys and girls, children simply leave._

_Maybe their Daddies are a bit shouty. Or maybe their Mummies take away their favourite toy for playing to loud or arguing with their sisters. Or maybe they just want an adventure._

_Believe the dragon when he says that ah, to live, and to die – that would be an awfully big adventure._

***

 

The next morning, with Hamish playing happily in the hallway with Lestrade, Sherlock and John joined Molly in the morgue while she completed her most recent group of autopsies.

On every table there was the piteously small body of a little boy, covered respectfully in a white sheet. She had done the first four autopsies previously, but had the bodies on hand anyway, just in case Sherlock needed to compare details. She was just finishing up on poor Andrew when they got there.

“Do you have anything of use?” Sherlock demanded, banging his way through the swinging doors as he took off his gloves. John followed more quietly behind.

“Not much.” Molly admitted with only a small stutter (John was quite proud of her). “Stomach contents are normal – juice, sandwiches, just the sorts of things you’d expect in a small boy’s belly. No signs of.,. trauma…” she hesitated for a moment. “Of any sort.”

“That’s something, then.” John offered with a grim smile.

“Yes, John, thank God they were only murdered. How much more awful it could have been.” Sherlock snapped sarcastically.

John fought the urge to glare or snap back – he knew this was just Sherlock’s way of trying to establish his professional distance again.

“Um, and there wasn’t any trace on their clothes or hair or anything.” Molly finished after looking between the two for a moment, trying to interpret their looks and non-looks, but failing miserably.

“Cause of death?” Sherlock demanded, letting his eyes settle on Mark’s blond head.

“Haven’t quite gotten there yet…” Molly admitted. She hurried on before Sherlock could chastise her. “Like I said, there’s no trauma, no haemorrhaging, no ligament marks or track marks or anything. They weren’t drowned or suffocated or starved, obviously. They just seem to have…died.”

“Did you run tox screens?” John asked.

Molly nodded. “Nothing on any of the usual ones.”

“Might I suggest checking the _unusual_ ones.” Sherlock bit out.

“Right. Yes. Of course. Um, the thing is, they’re being run. But they’re a bit more…fiddly. It’ll take a while. And there’re… well, there’re a lot of them. It’s hard to know which to run.”

“All of them.” Sherlock dictated, turning from Mark to face Molly for the first time. “He has trauma.” He told her.

“Sorry?” Molly blinked.

“The last boy, the racoon twin. Mark. He has trauma. There’s obvious evidence of trauma near his carotid. That could have easily ruptured it. The blood pooling in his head would have covered this up mostly, but you can still see the slightly darker markings on the side of the throat, under his jaw, there.” He gestured.

“Oh, yes, I see. I hadn’t actually gotten to him yet…”

“No, and yet you still should have seen it, shouldn’t you have?”

“Sherlock.” John interrupted quietly.

Sherlock took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he exhaled. “I apologize, Molly. We knew Mark would be different, in any case. The killer must have injured him – or he injured himself. It’s what sped up the timeline. See if you can ascertain a weapon – I suggest swabbing very carefully for trace around the wound.”

It was at that point that Lestrade opened the door, one hand clasped firmly around Hamish’s. “Lads? The girl’s been found.”

 

***

 

_Hello. Are you ready for the story?_

***

 

She was quite the sight, John thought, with her long blond hair and perfect nails dripping blood.

The girl was unlike the boys in many more ways than one. For starters, she was both four-years-old _and_ a girl. Then, there was her dress – she was not an animal, not by any stretch of the imagination. The closest thing to animalistic was a single feather tucked into the hair spread out around her face. Other than that, she was wearing the same nightie that she’d been abducted in.

Also, the cause of death was immediately apparent.

Eyes open wide, arms spread wide to either side of the base of the stature she was crumpled beneath, blood dripping first down them, then down the metal and onto the ground. The entire back of her skull was caved in – she’d been thrown, or dropped, onto the statue, crushing her little skull.

Hamish was, gratefully, safely tucked away in one of the Yarders’ cars, watching some show or another on Lestrade’s laptop. This was one set of photos Sherlock wasn't getting anywhere near him.

The fact that it was a girl seemed to be helping Sherlock to concentrate. However, the lack of evidence was frustrating him to no end. The man stood, rattling off what little he managed to glean from the picture in front of them.

“The killer dragged her up a ladder – you can see the markings in the dirt, here. She was unconscious at the time, obvious from the lack of scuffling and the position she landed in. It was the same man who abducted the racoon boys – there’s no ash present, but the scent is lingering on her nightgown.” He paused for breath, eyes flicking rapidly. “The killer drives a van large enough to house a collapsible ladder and likely to contain rope, but not so large or flashy as to attract attention. He also owns a smaller vehicle – car, dark, sedan – which he uses during the abductions. No work truck would escape notice at the times the children were taken. So, work van. Probably city worker, giving ease of access to the Gardens.” Lestrade picked up his radio at this, but Sherlock waved him off. “Don’t get so excited, it’s stolen, obviously. He knew I’d figure the van out eventually. Focus on the Iraq angle. You can narrow it down significantly – the man neither aged out, nor did he medically release, so he would have been a dishonourable discharge.”

“I thought he could have been military _or_ mercenary?” Lestrade questioned.

“Could have been, but no. Definitely military. Officer route. He’s too clever to have been a gun for hire. He wouldn’t have been able to act as quickly when the plan went awry.”

Lestrade nodded once. “That it?” Sherlock nodded back, and Lestrade headed back to the group of cars to call in the new information, as well as put out an order to spot-check any city van frequenting the area. Sherlock and John followed behind, going to collect Hamish before heading back home.

_“Are you ready for the story?”_

Sherlock heard the voice before Hamish ever came into view. He bolted the remaining feet between himself and the car, snatching the laptop away from his son, much to his chagrin.

What he saw was an animated fairy tale scene of a knight approaching a castle.

“Hamish, what is this?” He demanded.

“Sherlock, what is it?” John asked, confused.

Of course he was confused. John hadn’t been in the cab. He hadn’t heard that sentence, hadn’t heard the story of Sir Boast-a-Lot. Only Sherlock had.

“Hamish! What _is_ this?” Sherlock demanded.

“Sherlock, you’re scaring him.” John chastised, reaching past Sherlock to gather the boy into his arms. “What’s this about?”

“The Storyteller.” Sherlock stated.

“The Storyteller?” John repeated, furrowing his brow. A moment later his eyes widened in recognition. “Not _that_ Storyteller. Brooks? On DVD?”

“The very same. That’s how he started. ‘Are your ready for the story.’ I’d know that voice anywhere.”

“I watch him on the computer.” Hamish piped up quietly. “He tells lots of stories. Mrs. Hudson lets me.”

Sherlock clicked the screen furiously, trying to discover the source of the link. “I don’t recognize the site…he's got the source blocked off somehow...” he growled, taking out his phone with the other hand, dialling his landlady’s number as he through the laptop down on the carseat.

“Mrs. Hudson. How does Hamish get to The Storyteller?” he demanded before she even had a chance to say hello. John bent over the laptop while he spoke, watching the scene unfold. It was shaking oddly…

“I’m not really sure, Sherlock, dear. You know how useless I am with those things. Hamish is much better than I am, I just let him start it up. He’s been watching it for weeks now. Why, is he asking for it? Just tell him to click the little S on the screen, I think that’s how he does it.”

“S?” Sherlock demanded.

“Um, Sherlock…” John called. The animated scene was slowly moving to the side. He motioned an officer over and handed Hamish off to her.

Sherlock, however, was trying to think of the applications on his laptop. “The only S is Skype, Mrs. Hudson, are you sure?”

“Sherlock. You should really look at this.” John insisted, standing straight so Sherlock could bend in front of the screen.

The animated scene was completely gone now. It had obviously been video of a video. Now the scene was dominated by a t-shirt.

“Ah, and you must be Hamish’s Daddies. How nice to meet you both. Are you ready for the story?” The mystery figure asked politely. “All children grow up – all children, except one. This is the story of a little boy who never ever grew up, and this is also the story of Sir Boast-a-Lot and his scribe and his squire. Isn’t it funny how all the stories seem to be the same? And every single one of them, once upon a time.”

Sherlock slammed the laptop shut, breathing heavily.

“It’s not possible.” He insisted. “I won’t believe it.”

“Sherlock, it can’t be Mori-“

“No! It’s not possible!” Sherlock interrupted. He turned on his heel, taking a few steps back to the statue, then returned to John. His hands flew up to his hair, as if of their own accord. “God, I’m so stupid! Why am I such an idiot?”

“You’re not an idiot.” John insisted.

“Oh, don’t be so loyal. Right now, even if you prove me wrong, I will never agree with you. I am a royal idiot and I didn’t _see._ She _is_ an animal, John. She’s a Wendy-bird. A Wendy-bird who couldn’t fly.”

“What?” Now John was really confused.

“Peter Pan, John. The story of a little boy who never grew up. His Lost Boys, dressed as a bear and a fox and a bloody bunny rabbit. And Wendy, John and Michael, the Darling children stolen from their beds, flying off to Neverland. Did you know how much of that story was written right here? Right in Kensington Gardens? Even the damned statue! Peter Pan! Right there, in the park and I didn’t _see_!”

“So who’s Peter?” John asked, trying to catch up. “The killer?”

Sherlock’s face darkened. “No, John. It would appear that Hamish was intended to be young Pan. Come on. I know where he is.”

 

***

 

_Not every knight lives happily ever after, boys and girls. And not every dragon remains slain._

***

 

The cab pulled up to the scaffold-ridden building. “Construction, John.” Sherlock stated as he handed the cabbie his money, holding the door open for his husband before taking off at a sprint for the building. “All those years ago they started performing construction on historic hospitals in the area. Recently, they started on The Great Ormond Street Hospital. Where else would a Peter Pan killer take his victims? Where else would he give them their poisoned medicine a la Captain Hook?” They were inside now, checking in empty rooms, peering around corners. John had never wished more that he had his gun…

A loud, solitary clapping rang out through the hallway. Sherlock turned towards it, sprinting to the end of the hall where the last doorway opened up to a massive auditorium, plastic sheeting covering the walls.

“Hiii.” A voice joined the clapping. A moment later, so did a figure. A short figure with dark hair and eyes dressed in what John would bet his life was Westwood.

“Jim?” Moriarty questioned, eyes wide, “But I saw you die! Well, to be fair, though, hubby there saw _you_ die, too, Sherlock. And yet, here you stand in wedded bliss with nary a necrophilia charge between you.” He smiled cruelly. “Moriarty’s the name. But you knew that. You can call me Professor.

“Don’t look so worried, Sherlock. You weren’t tricked. Poor Jim’s gone, alright. Then again, he never was quite all there, was he? He was the cleverest person I had ever met but seemed to be malfunctioning in some way. Oh well, one in every family, yes? What? Didn’t notice the resemblance? Jimmy never talked about me? His own twin brother? Surprise!” _Professor_ Moriarty laughed mirthlessly. “Don’t worry about those two little ones, either. Sebby’s sent them home. You win the round, but I believe you’ll have to admit – I win the game. Didn’t know we could switch players, did you Sherlock? We’re going to have so much fun.” He threw his arm out exaggeratedly, as if to check a watch that wasn’t there. “Oh my, look at the time. I’d best be off. Take care of that boy of yours, Sherlock. Or I just might do it for you.”

With that, he was gone. Once they’d recovered from the shock, Sherlock and John chased after him, but it was like he was the ghost he’d appeared at first to be.

Moriarty had a brother. Sherlock had been gone three years, and it still wasn’t over.

It would never be over.

The game was still afoot.

**Author's Note:**

> Set about a year and a half before Long Time the Maxome Foe He Sought. I just couldn't not write about them again, so when fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic put up a casefic challenge, I decided it was the perfect platform.
> 
> Once again, the title comes from Lewis Carroll's poem The Jabberwocky. Several details of the case are direct reflections of Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie (my favourite play, story, movie, book, etc, ever), and, of course, John, Sherlock and company are all property of Arthur Conan Doyle Moffat, Gatiss, and the team at BBC.


End file.
